


rangiku

by iluxia



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fem!Hibari, Genderbending, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iluxia/pseuds/iluxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geisha!fic, fem!Bari. "As it is, he is not to blame for tripping when he first catches sight of her. She is a mirage, a contortion of his imagination; his very best and very worst dreams coming true. She stands as a quiet light in the darkness, the pale gleam of her skin beckoning for his touch as the moon high above beckoned for ambitious men’s feet."</p>
            </blockquote>





	rangiku

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jusrecht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/gifts), [aventria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aventria/gifts).



> This piece was originally written as a Christmas gift for seven of my lovely plurklings from the original Church of Barilegs. Each enumerated piece below was printed in stationery & sent out to their corresponding recipients through snail mail. Now here it is for everyone else to enjoy!

**1. _for Julia_**

As it is, he is not to blame for tripping when he first catches sight of her. She is a mirage, a contortion of his imagination; his very best and very worst dreams coming true. She stands as a quiet light in the darkness, the pale gleam of her skin beckoning for his touch as the moon high above beckoned for ambitious men’s feet.

To her gait and sway there exists a certain art, a particularly slow and deliberate cadence reserved only for her ears. She stands just tall enough perhaps to reach his shoulder, but she remains lofty and prideful. He finds this beautiful.

On the first night he sits and watches her for the short duration of her thirty-minute stay. She does not seem pleased to his eyes, instead annoyed, and terribly, terribly bored. He knows he can amuse her, if given the chance. After the half hour she stands and leaves and behind her the customer calls out in displeasure, but the proprietor descends to cover her, and the customer relents.

He soon leaves, as there is no point in remaining without her presence, but before he does, he talks to the proprietor, and asks for a reservation. It is a crime, he thinks, for such a godly being as her to be demeaned with plebes for company. The proprietor knows to ask for a steep price per hour, but he matches it and goes beyond, because the price that is set for her is barely a scratch on her true worth—this he knows.

•

And he is not mistaken, for when he finally meets her, she is resplendent and exalted. She sits across the table, and in his chest his heart pounds a mile a minute, but the radiant smile he gives her does not falter. Haughtily, her cast remains the same.

The proprietor introduces him: a custom, he learns, in polite Japanese society, and so it is in _his_ society. One never introduces oneself; instead, one is introduced to another by a friend, a middle ground. Only when the proprietor leaves them to their own devices does he realise, however, the true weight of a middle ground, because after the proprietor leaves, she tenses her jaw and rises from her seat, leaving him sitting at the table all by himself.

She retreats to her quarter behind the sliding doors, and through the flimsy paper he can see her animated shadow, cast by gentle candlelight. She does not wish to talk.

•

It is after a few minutes that he regains his courage, and pushes to say, “Your proprietor will not be pleased if you leave your client unaccompanied.”

And he regrets it immediately—or perhaps not—when the sting of the words stiffens her back, visible through the dancing shadows from inside her closed quarter. She parts the doors open wide, meets him with veiled but menacing eyes, and the animosity in her rough, offended tone sends a current of hot-and-cold shimmying down his spine. “I am _not_ a _whore_.”

He smiles. “So you aren’t.”    
When he next visits, the proprietor no longer steps into the room with him, leaving him to his devices. His enduring favour is an item of pleasure for the proprietor, a sly and cunning creature he does not know whether to name male or female. On the contrary, his enduring presence is an item of extreme displeasure for her, his nameless moon, the very item of his eyes.

Again, she sits within her closed quarters, with a single candle throwing her shadow against paper. He sits outside and waits in quiet, until with firm fingers she slides the door a sliver open.

“Why do you come back? I do not want to talk to you.”

“Ah, but I do,” he smiles. “You should come and sit with me.” He parts the door a little wider and slips his hand through, offering an open palm, which immediately stings in pain, when she slaps it away.

“Do not presume to tell me what to do, herbivore,” she spat.

He chuckles the pain away and retrieves his hand, but keeps the door open when he implores, “Then at least tell me what I should call you. Surely you have a name, if not affection for my presence.” He lifts from the table the item he has brought with him, though he knows that she will not appreciate her sentiment. “Perhaps you will tell me your name in exchange for a gift.”

“You cannot buy your way into my favour, Cavallone.”

Startling at the sharp lilt of his name on her tongue, he lets out a delighted laugh. “See? Don’t you think this situation is unfair? You know my name, and yet I know nothing of you.”

“Only herbivores value the idea of fairness and equality,” disdainful, she shifts. “The world is unfair.”

She remains quiet as he moves to part the door wider. His clothes rustle as he leans forward for a glimpse of her. All he can see is the inky cascade of her long hair, and the slide-and-curve of her waist as it flares down to her hip. The line of her neck is concealed underneath a brush of dark locks.

“Yes, indeed, perhaps it is.” 

He lifts his hand and lets the tiny bird perched atop it flutter up to land on her shoulder. She starts in surprise, and turns her head to blink gently at the bird. She grants him his first close look of her face that is free of disdain and displeasure: narrow planes of skin and bone, smouldering dark eyes, a straight nose, full lips, all painted in a gentle daze. No goddess can compare. 

“But we are not out there in the world, are we? Can we not pretend, just for a little while?”

The little yellow bird perches on her finger and twitters a happy little tune. She remains still for a heartbeat, and then two, and when she turns, slow, to face him, her eyes are a deep, dark, secretive black.

“No.”

 

When he comes back for the third time, roughly a week later, she meets him at the table, and the candlelight quarter is wide open and empty.

•

**2. _for Foxy_**

The little bird she decides to name Hibird, after her family. Hibird is her new companion in this dismal cage within which she now lives; Hibird is welcome warmth on her shoulder, albeit small. She finishes her early dinner in calm quiet, savouring the respite she is granted for this evening. Tonight, there is no obligation to step into the _okiya_ ’s hall and entertain the guests. Tonight, for the whole night until morning, she is reserved.

“Do hurry and prepare for your guest,” says a velvet voice from by the doors, where her proprietor stands. “He is paying good money to be with you. It will not do to disappoint.”

Her chopsticks slice through the room at her proprietor, who masterfully evades with a precision no ordinary _okiya_ proprietor should possess.

“Feisty,” Rokudo Mukuro murmurs with a pleased smile, “just the way he likes it.”

“I am not the whore here, herbivore; _you_ are,” she hisses. “I am not your property to rent or sell.”

“And yet you relent and entertain him nonetheless, do you not? Don’t be a spoilsport now, beautiful. He pays good money and gives me what I want; in turn, _I_ give _you_ what _you_ want.”

She has nothing but spite to offer the cunning man, and when she is left to herself and her quiet, she has nothing but impatience to offer herself.

•

Bearing gifts and a sunny smile, the curious man comes again. Tonight, he stays for the whole night, though she cannot see how he will entertain her for such an expansive stretch of time. Her patience with him is short, and she is not without justification; he is an insufferable eyesore, a cancer to her composure.

“You kept him,” he remarks fondly, looking upon the little yellow bird twittering softly in its corner of silk cloths and cushions.

“I find him a far more intelligent companion than you,” which is true. He only laughs.

Quite suddenly, as if sensing its chance in the brief stretch of quiet and knowing his presence in the conversation, the little yellow bird breaks out in song—the very same song she hums while brushing her hair. He listens, highly entertained, as the bird flutters about and finally lands upon the table, ruffling its wings as it ceases its tune.

“Very impressive, little one,” he smiles, stroking a long and tapered finger along the bird’s top. “You outdo me, indeed. No wonder she likes you. Now if she would only tell me her name…”

The bird chirps and flaps its tiny wings, as if to say something. It chirps again, and again, as if trying to articulate, until finally, its beaks open to form the word it struggles for: “Rangiku!”

Her eyes tighten; he blinks in surprise.

“Rangiku!” the bird chirps again, having heard her false name from Mukuro. “Rangiku! Rangiku!” and soon, understanding dawns upon him, and he breaks out in a dearly blinding smile.

“Rangiku,” he murmurs softly, a brush of feather against her skin. “A fierce name.”    
Time and again, he comes back; time and again, she accompanies him. Soon, he begins telling her tales of his hometown in Italy, a place she has never been to and she will never care for. Italy is only a breeding ground for ill-mannered pretentious boys playing brigands, with no respect for tradition or propriety. Italy is the very reason she is here, suffering this whorehouse, instead of home.

Arguably, she chose this; she ran from home on her own. However, it remains that she does all of this for her clan, past spats notwithstanding. Her grandfather refuses to grant her freedom; she can do nothing else but rebel.

No doubt the house by now is in an uproar. Though it is not the first time their heiress has gone missing, it is, by now, the longest span of absence. They have license to worry. Tetsuya will have combed the entire city thrice over for a sign of her presence, but they will not find her. Mukuro is thorough, that much she can give the herbivorous whore.

With waxing patience she waits for him to tell more, to give more. She wants for the information; though it is not necessary, it will be useful. When he begins alluding and referring in casual to his business, she lets slip a little smile—and he, herbivorous and simple as he is, laps her approval up like honey and milk. 

He is akin to a dog, she muses; a pet, eager to please. A pet that needs discipline. 

She begins to stab his hands with her chopsticks whenever there is a slip within his table manners, and surely enough, he begins to learn. He delights in her teaching, quiet and wordless though it is—so he says. She prefers to think of it as training—or better yet, punishment. A good stallion must first be broken before it can run.

On his eighth visit, he drinks too much and falls into slumber. His arms cradle his head as it slouches on the table in a blatant show of vulnerability; this herbivore is an idiot, she thinks, and this herbivore will soon die.

Yes, soon, she thinks, as she quietly draws a blade from her _obi_. Once she rids him from this world, the Hibari-ke will resume usual business, free of the threat of the expansion of Italian drug dealing. This man here, he is her key.

But as she lowers the blade against the soft skin on the curve of the man’s neck, her hand falters. Her hand falters, and pauses, and refuses to move.

She remains crouched over him for two, three, five minutes, until a shuffle from beyond the door alerts her to someone else’s presence, and she returns the blade to its place. The door slides open to reveal a man in black, Italian, bespectacled.

“ _Scusa l’intrusione, Signore_ —“ the man looks up and sees his master sprawled on the table. “Ah.” 

“Too much _sake_ ,” she says, dipping her head in demure respect. No one must know; no one must suspect.

The bespectacled elder man bows low, and in straight Japanese murmurs: “I apologise for the intrusion, my lady. It is perhaps best if the young master retired for the night.” As if for reassurance, the man adds, “The whole night will nonetheless be paid.”

“No need,” she waves a casual hand as men step in to retrieve the shamefully slouched figure on the table. “Taking more than what I am owed is improper. Please give my regards to your… master.”

The man looks to argue, but eventually desists. “A pleasant night, my lady,” and when they are gone, she bites her lip and slides a finger against the sharp edge of the blade still hidden within her _obi_. Blood wells on her finger, and with absent-minded relish, she laves at the wound with her tongue.

She has let him live.

•

 **3. _for Kaiti_**

Where there should be pleasure at being free of the whorehouse even if only for one night, there is only irritation gnawing at the insides of her chest. He knows nothing of the last night, when he fell unconscious and bared his neck to her blade. He suspects nothing, and his aide, Romario, suspects nothing. They all suspect nothing.

Except Mukuro, of course.

Her guileful proprietor somehow knows of her failed attempt and takes every available opportunity to mock her for it. Not one word uttered, she continues her façade of unshakable icy certainty, when inside, she berates herself for the chance she has wasted.

But he knows nothing of this, and in his ignorance, he is blissful—enough to ask for permission to take her on a night out. A _date_.

So here she is, miserable and sullen, though in appearance the paragon of calm. From across her he sits, regal in his suit, today a sleek black to match the blood red and white of her kimono. She feels his eyes on her skin, and with the smallest of scowls, she snaps, “If you don’t stop staring, Cavallone, I will carve your lecherous eyes out and feed it to you.”

Again, a laugh, “I was merely appreciating your beauty tonight, Rangiku. Rest assured I have no ill intentions towards you; none whatsoever.”

For that, a glare is all she has.

They arrive at a place she has heard of in the past—a first-class restaurant offering _kabuki_ viewing during a traditional Japanese meal. She thinks this is boorish and uncultured, for doing both at one time reduces appreciation for each separate art. To her surprise, she needs not voice her concern; he explicitly forbids anything but appetizers during the course of the show, saving the meal for later.

Perhaps indeed he has some sort of appreciation for art. She glances at him, sideways, as they observe from their balcony the theatre below. Does he understand magnitude of meaning behind the layered intricacies of this art? Is he even remotely aware of the symbolic relevance of the performance before him?

She realises quickly that though he has told her stories of his hometown and his business and his life, he remains vague and inexact, always brushing against the surface but never shooting to the core. 

She realises quickly that she does not know him.

•

“What did you think?” she begins. He pauses and nearly gawps in surprise, for this is the first time she has initiated conversation. When he does not reply, she repeats, “What did you think of the act?”

“Oh,” sheepishly he smiles. “It was interesting and highly educational. But as for the finer details of criticism, I cannot say… I have to admit to my inexperience in Japanese culture.”

Only after a stretch of silence does she then remark, “In order to fully succeed in a foreign country, one must first understand their culture and norms. Otherwise, one will only continue to offend and destroy.” Her clan and his drug dealing are fine examples. “But you are a herbivore,” dismissive now, she says, “so I do not expect you to know this.” She says no more.   
“You have had too much _sake._ Again,” she says when they get back. It is dark in the _okiya_ and the halls are empty. Some rooms are still lit as they pass by; murmurs and catches of conversation are audible through the paper doors. Other indecent sounds she chooses to ignore.

Her private quarters are at the very back, reserved for him by Mukuro, who, since their first meeting, has tried many times to invite her into his _okiya_. Leading the Cavallone into her quarters, she beckons him to sit down and drink tea. Again, he sports a head-splitting migraine, perhaps from stress, most likely from too much to drink. His tolerance for _sake_ is pathetically low, but what can one expect from a herbivore?

Hibird croons quietly for the both of them as he finishes his tea and removes his jacket for more comfort. He then searches for a place to rest his head for a while, and when he sees her sitting there, he asks, “Would you terribly mind if I borrowed your lap for a while, Rangiku?”

Yes, she thinks she would mind. Or would she?

Before her mind can phrase a thought, her hands open in a gesture of welcome, and he smiles a darling little smile of gratitude, before laying his head down and giving a sigh of obvious comfort. Her hands, instinctive, touch his ear, his chin, and slide into his silky blond hair.

She refuses to acknowledge this as a betrayal of her clan. It is not. She is only buying time, gathering more information. She is by no means nor will she become affectionate or attached to Dino Cavallone. And one day, one day, he will fall prey to her hands and her teeth and she will rip him to shreds and sink his drug business into the deepest dumping recesses of hell.

Hibird croons quietly for the both of them as she tangles her fingers within his generous golden locks, rhythmic and almost stroking in their actions.

“I could stay here with you, like this, forever,” and it is but a whisper but she hears. His lips form a quiet sigh of contentment, and his breathing deepens, losing his struggle against sleep.

She will kill this man, she told herself, and she will save her clan, one day.

“Go to sleep,” she says. “Go to sleep.”

She will kill this man, one day—only not today.

•

She falls asleep beside him, curled around him, and this she fails to notice until the next morning, when she wakes, and around her is tucked his jacket. In the loose fist of her left hand is a written note, and around her left wrist sits a prim rope of silver, meeting on either sides of a blood red ruby stone. Simple and elegant.

Pushing herself upright, she examines the bracelet—expensive, no doubt, but subtle enough to hide against her skin. The note unfolding in between her fingers reads, 

_For you, my love_.

•

**4. _for Kira_**

He imposes himself even more often after that one night, coming almost every other night, and Mukuro is beyond pleased. In fact, it seems that only she is displeased by this arrangement. It is enough that she has to suffer his presence once or twice a week, she snarls to Mukuro, but three, even _four_? It is infuriating beyond human comprehension.

Or so she says. She begins doubting if her words are indeed true, because though Dino Cavallone is indeed an eyesore, a cancer, a bloody yapping Chihuahua incessantly begging for attention at her feet, she now feels affection towards him. The _okiya_ similarly feels affection towards his subordinates, inasmuch is for sure. 

Under the impression that things cannot get much worse from this point, she is caught unawares when on a Sunday afternoon, Cavallone stops by, and Mukuro brings him to her quarters without warning. She is clad only in _yukata_ , her face bare of colour, her hair free of the customary ornaments. She might as well be naked before him—but Mukuro does not appear to care, leaving the two of them on their own with a sly little smile.

“Ah,” Dino says, rubbing the back of his head. “I apologise. I came without warning.”

She shrugs, a smooth and fluid motion, and beckons for him to sit. The bracelet glimmers on her wrist, and as always, it coaxes from him a pure and happy smile.

“Are you busy today?” he suddenly asks as she prepares them tea. “If you’re not, I’d like to invite you to my house for dinner.”

Hands halting, she turns to him. “Dinner.”

He smiles. “Well, we always have Japanese food, and while I don’t find anything wrong with it, I thought it might be a nice change of atmosphere if we had Italian food for once. I’d take you to a restaurant, but surely you’ll understand if I’ve yet to find any place that satisfies my native tongue?”

“So you will cook for me,” she raises an eyebrow, and his smile widens into a chuckle.

“For you, I’d tear down the heavens, love,” he takes her hand and places against the back of it a gentle little kiss—for which she slaps him.

“Impertinent,” but she smiles.

•

The house is surprisingly modest in its grandeur. She expected a grand mansion, but on the contrary, it is a two-floor house—large, yes, but nowhere near a mansion. The spacious Western rooms are a breath of fresh air from the whorehouse’s bare Eastern design. Beneath her bare feet, the marble floors are smooth and cool.

He leads her inside, through the wide halls, and shows her individual rooms, each vacant of living souls except them and her happy yellow bird sailing above. Outside, she spies guards, men in black suits, roaming the gardens, guns artfully hidden underneath their jackets in preparation for any situation. He tells her not to mind them; they will not disturb.

She begs to differ; they will _want_ to disturb, if they knew of her heritage and identity. But they don’t.

He distracts her by taking her to the kitchen and asking her if she wished to watch him cook, or if she wished instead to spend idle time lounging about around the house. She chooses the latter, and so she spends the rest of her afternoon and early evening studiously gazing upon painting after portrait after painting. There are books, too, and those she spends more time on. The piano’s lifted lid beckons for nimble fingers to play, but she is not learned.

When he comes to fetch her, he smells of seared greens, cheese, tomatoes, and underneath it all the ever-present sharp tang of Italian wine. The table is tastefully prepared, meticulously so that she wonders if he indeed has prepared everything on his own. 

Dinner is a treat: she shares with him a plate of antipasti and cheese, savours the rich flavour of his excellent veal saltimbocca, and empties with him the same bottle of prime Chianti. Sufficiently inebriated, they retreat to the upstairs living room, where he takes her into the midst of its wide space, and declares that they will now dance.

Tango, he says, to which she replies, “Tango is not Italian.”

He laughs. “Doesn’t matter.” 

The balcony doors are open, letting in a quiet breeze that ruffles her hair. Today, she is not in a kimono, but casual clothing—a fluid black dress.

“Do you know how to tango?” he asks, and she shows him instead of answering. 

Their step is slow, their sway graceful, dearly sensual as they ride the deliberate curls of melody. His hands on her body, for the first time, not for the last time, because she likes this warmth, this heat, and she will have it again, and again, and again. 

Under the slightest suggestion of his fingers, she finds her body bending, swaying, turning, obeying. His hand slides up, up the curve of her back, cupping her neck, and against it she tips her head. Their feet are a sweet and menacing tangle of limbs, moving forth and back, side to side, together, apart. The pads of her fingers slide against his scalp, and _ohh_ , the slow heat is mind-numbing in its intensity.

Perhaps it is the wine, she thinks, when they tumble back into a couch and he dips his head to lap at her neck. Perhaps it is the wine, when she lifts her leg as a hand slides up her thigh, when she pulls him close as he laves at her neck. And when their lips lock and pull together she drowns in his sigh, in his heat—her arms fall slack, her eyes slide shut. He cradles her body close and careful—treasuring, cradling, _loving_ , dare she think it—

But when his hand slides higher and his finger slides against the insides of her thigh, she pulls away, frowning through the haze, “I am not a whore.”

He wets his lips and laughs then, removing his hands and instead putting them around her waist. “Indeed, you aren’t.” He buries his face against her neck and holds her, holds her. “Yes, you aren’t. You’re so much more. Special. Beautiful,” and by this time his words are mere whispers of air against her skin, but she feels them, and she knows them, and she understands them.

They fall together into sleep as such, tangled around each other, until late into the night when he wakes and takes her to bed. She is barely aware when he adds another thin rope of silver around her wrist—to match the ruby, this one held a stone of deep, luminescent gold.  
 

•

**5. _for Jusrecht_**

There are nights like the old, when he sits with her quiet company, perhaps under the stars and the night sky, with _tsukimizake_. Then there are nights like these, she surrenders—and, _ah_ , what aggressive submission it is, so far as it can be called such. He unleashes his greed on her skin, on her lips, on her tongue, and this—this is what he returns for, again, and again, and again.

She is not a whore, this he knows, yes. Though she is here, in this fashionably guised whorehouse, she is not one of them, a plaything, a puppet, a doll to admire. No, she is _so much more_.

She is her own soul, her own mind, her own body, her own will. And there is no more solid proof to the existence of that will than her eyes, holding spitfires of hell, scorching in their intensity. He wants her for himself, so much, _so much_. He wants to be able to take her home, to call her his, to prevent the filthy hands of other men from touching her. She is a gem to be treasured for _life_ , not a pretty little thing to have for a night. 

He wants to serve her, day in and day out. He wants to see her smile _only_ for him, to make her happy as she can be. And maybe, maybe—he dearly slides his tongue on her lower lip—maybe one day, he will see her bear his children… 

He knows she keeps her secrets. She lets him have his way with a fraction of her body, but she has her secrets, and he hopes that, eventually, he will gain enough of her trust that she will tell him of them. He does not mind secrets; he has lots of his own, and safety dictates against telling her too much, so he watches his words.

This pains him, more than he lets it show. He wants her, _all_ of her. But he understands when she pushes his wandering hands away, when she tempers the fire between the two of them and gives him a beautiful scowl of admonishment. There is a certain line he must not cross, at least not while they are _okyaku_ and _maiko_.

He gathers her in his arms, buries his face in the deep velvet _sakura_ scent of her neck, and wonders how he can bridge this one gap. For he knows that if—no, _when_ he does, he will have her, and she will claim him, and he will be more than happy to give her the world and more, _oh_ so much more.

•

His affection for her is no secret. His entire _famiglia_ is well aware of his frequent visits, and they know better than to say a thing against it.

That is, except for Romario.

The man, his _consigliere_ , has served his father when his father lived, has watched him grow, and more. This man is the one person allowed to admonish _him_ , _the_ Lord Cavallone, when he steps out of line. Perhaps not only because of the deep ties, but because it is only this man who sees it when he begins to step out of line.

“ _Signore_ , this is unwise,” so Romario says as they step into the car. They are, again, making their way to the _okiya_ , for the third time in the week. How many weeks it has been since he first saw her, he has lost count.

“Why do I feel hesitation in your words, Romario?” and he does, a palpable one. Normally, Romario admonishes with the solid determination to purge whatever negativity or bad habit it is that has taken hold over the young lord.   
Romario keeps his quiet, so Dino hazards a guess, and voices it. “You approve of her.”

Romario dips his head in a bow. Dino raises his brows in surprise. She is indeed a unique soul to gain Romario’s approval, for the elder man is strict with his requirements, always and forever keeping in the forefront the future of the _famiglia_. Whomever the lord marries must be worthy of bearing the burden of the Cavallone’s progeny. Dino knows this to be the third in Romario’s creed.

“She has a strong soul,” Romario now says. “I can see it, in her eyes. She has supreme blood, I am sure of it, though I cannot find any information on her. The proprietor refuses to say a thing.”

“Oh, she has true blood, indeed,” Dino smiles now, a smile of hunger and eagerness for the apple of his eye. “I need no paperwork to certify it for me.”

For the following minutes they wallow in their separate thoughts, until Romario speaks again: “Do you wish to have her as your wife, milord?” His eyes swivel to meet Romario’s bespectacled ones. The city’s bright lights slowly tame as they move into the quieter neighbourhoods. Romario continues, “She is viable. Yet a _maiko_ —no one else has touched her. She should be clean. We can have her go through tests, to be sure. We will have to purchase her from the proprietor; it will not be cheap.”

He dislikes the way Romario talks of her, as if a piece of merchandise, _disposable_. She is not.

He remains deep in thought, silent, until they arrive, upon which time he has made his decision. He goes straight to her quarters, leaving Romario to handle the particulars; tonight will be a special night.

•

She turns gracefully to greet him, and before she can sit, he takes her left hand, kneels and places a soft kiss on its back. She gazes down at him with suspicion and veiled wonder; he gazes back with pure adoration and honesty.

“Rangiku—I know not your real name—but I love you.” She blinks, slow. He does not falter, does not let himself falter. “Will you let me have the honour of becoming your husband, so that I may keep you close and treasured, as I swear to do, for the rest of my life?”

She remains there, still and standing, nothing short of stunned, for sure. This is a surprise, so very sudden, unexpected. He continues.

“I plan to return to Italy soon. Business here—I shall be honest with you. My business here is drug dealing.” Behind him, Romario chokes back a word of caution. “It is not going well. I do not wish to continue this business; I feel no compassion for it. Weapons and arms, extortion, loan sharking, contract control—all of that I can handle, but not this. This—drugs—they _destroy_ men. Even _my_ men. I refuse to let it destroy my family any further.” He takes both of her hands this time, holds them close. “But I refuse to leave Japan without you. Will you come with me?” 

She is quiet, dead quiet, quiet. He cannot bear this suspense, but he does. And when she moves, her will of fire roiling impatiently in her eyes, she pulls one hand out of his grip and slaps him.

It stings.

It stings, the first brunt of rejection, the slow burn of the after-pain, and the replays in his head. It stings—

She grabs his chin and lifts his face, so that they face each other. “Impertinent herbivore. You will do it again— _propose again_ —the _proper Japanese way_.” A vicious, victorious smile illuminates her face in a wicked, predatory sort of way—as if she is just as eager for this, but there remain things to be done first. “You will ask for my hand in marriage _again_ , the way I tell you to. And _then_ I will consider you.”

His heart soars.

•

**6. _for Package_**

And then it drops.

When they left the _okiya_ in a sudden rush, led by the darkly beautiful _maiko_ in the black-and-red kimono, his heart soared, but now it drops in anxiety. His men rally behind and around him as they step out of the car. They snarl at his driver, but the man has done nothing wrong, having only followed her directions to her home, so that they may talk to her parents.

That should have been his first clue. Why would she need to be a _maiko_ if she had a well-off and respectable family to provide for her? In hindsight, it is indeed strange.

But it makes sense now, he thinks, as he sees the wooden plaque by the traditional Japanese compound’s gates. _Hibari-ke_ , it reads. The Hibari clan, their foremost opponent in Japan, intent on stopping their drug business in its tracks and ferrying them back to Italy—if they are at all left alive. 

“Come,” she tugs him along. His men block their way. She glares up at them, and at the Hibari foot soldiers gathering by the gate. “Step aside, herbivore, if you wish to see tomorrow.” And she is so menacing that for a heartbeat, his men falter. They have yet to see her speak; they must be as surprised as he was, Dino thinks with amusement.

“It’s okay. Stand down. Lower your weapons; there’s no need for them.”

“But sir—“

“Romario, follow,” and he lets himself be led towards the house, through its doors (where he mindfully toes off his shoes), down the long hallways, until they reach a particular room, before which she stops and flings the sliding doors wide open.

There, sitting in the dining hall around a table, is her unmistakable family. Her mother, of whom she is a spitting image, and her father; her grandmother and her grandfather—all of them stare up at her in surprise, confusion, and reprimand. She is being rather rude, he muses with a slight smile.

But all calm floods out from him when she faces them squarely—in particular the patriarch, her grandfather—and declares, dragging him forward by the wrist: 

“I am marrying _this_ man.”

•

Her mother draws a slow, silent gasp. Her father blanches. Dino does not blame him; he finds he can empathise. He was under the impression that they were here to propose in a _proper Japanese way_ —was this indeed the proper Japanese way of proposal?

The grandfather slowly lowers the cup of tea and levelly meets Dino’s eyes. In there is a strong, strong fire, the same fire _she_ has in _her_ eyes. The same fire he fell in love with. This is her family, indeed. There is no mistake—just as there is no longer any argument about her purity or the strength of her blood. This much should be enough as a warranty to allay Romario’s doubts.

“What is your name, boy?”

He blisters at the grandfather’s direct challenge, but does not flinch away. For her, he is willing to lower his pride. “Dino Cavallone of the Cavallone family of Calabria.”  
Her father raises his brows. Dino wonders if it is safe to take that as approval.

“Come,” the grandfather says, standing. He is led through another hallway, towards a detached building. Behind him Romario follows closely, and before him, her family walks in quiet obeisance. She walks in step by his side.

They reach a large hall of vacant space. A _dojo_ , he recalls correctly. This one, he realises, doubles as an armoury; on the walls are weapons neatly arranged by class, type, and make. He eyes several sharp spears by a corner.

The grandfather walks up to the farthest wall, grabs two sheathed Japanese swords, and throws one at Dino. He catches it in bewilderment and holds it before him awkwardly. In increasing alarm, he watches as the old man before him unsheathes the other sword and holds it at ready.

“Defend yourself.”

That is his only warning, and suddenly, he is caught sidestepping, dodging, and blocking with the sheathed sword sharp strikes no man of this man’s age should be able to throw. He manages to unsheathe his own sword, but he finds it awkward to use—how does he adjust to a Japanese sword, when he has never used one in his entire life?

But salvation comes in the form of her voice, when she begins to bark sharp, scathing instructions mingled with barbs and insults.

“Idiot!” she says. “Hold the hilt with two hands. Upright. Straighter, herbivore! Don’t look away—right foot in front, always! Is this all you’ve got?” 

Frantically he follows the beat of her voice against his ears. Blindly he trusts her with his life. Her grandfather is not only testing; his grandfather is prepared to kill. By instinct he begins falling into the right rhythm, and it is a blessing to have Romario close by, for it is a miracle that he does not trip and topple when he swings to the side and successfully knocks the sword out of her grandfather’s hands with a deft little blow to the wrist.

And when he holds the old man at blade’s edge to the throat, he startles at the resulting chuckle. Her grandfather easily removes himself from the compromising position and steps back, placing a hand on Dino’s shoulder.

“You follow my granddaughter’s words well, young man,” says her grandfather. “Good, good. Come now. There is much to discuss about your wedding, and your business.”

He stands there dazed, until she declares, “He has pledged to remove his drug dealing business as soon as possible.” Her grandfather stops and looks him in the eye. He nods quietly. 

“Well, then,” her mother says, with a smile as sharp as a knife, “in that case, I see no reason for this wedding to be delayed. Heaven knows we’ve been _trying_ to get her a good man to marry.”

Dino obediently follows, leaving the sword behind—he will need to practice more of that—and stepping beside her as they make their way back to the dining quarters.

As they walk, she slips her hand into his and says, “My name—my real name—is Kyouya.” She looks up at him with deep, deep eyes. “Hibari Kyouya.”

He laces his fingers with hers and grins his happiness, inadequate as words are for it.

“Just so we have it clear from the beginning,” she continues, “I refuse to replace or remove my family name. Even in marriage.”

He breaks out in laughter. 

•

**7. _for Twinness_**

Today, he is the epitome of patience. He keeps his quiet as he is assisted with his pure white Japanese regalia, of which’s name he has forgotten already. His lessons, determined though he was to learn them, went by so fast within the flurry of business and wedding preparations that he forgot most of what he was taught. He dearly prays for elegance and alertness today; it is his last wish to botch up his very own wedding day.

He is composed as Romario leads him out of his quarters. His men are near in tears for him; most of them are men of his father’s regime, loyal to the blood, happy for its continuation. This wedding ensures the strong continuation of their _famiglia._ Understandably, they are thrilled. He accepts their well-wishes and thanks them for their thoughtful gifts, and most of all, their dedication and time.

Through the drive to her clan’s house and the wait inside the entertainment hall with Romario, things remain uneventful—until that one moment when she finally walks into the room, in full formal attire. It is a delectable déjà vu as he watches her walk forth to greet him, quietly.

To her gait and sway there still exists a certain art, will forever exist a certain art—a particularly slow and deliberate cadence reserved for her ears, and this time, his too. She stands just tall enough to reach his shoulder, but she retains her pride, and for this he finds her thoroughly worship-worthy.

It is with admirable restraint that he manages to hold himself back from touching her. Tradition, he reminds himself constantly, dictates against intemperance and unsightly desires. But it is hard, _oh_ , so hard, when she looks like that, when she looks like no Greek goddess or Italian model can compare. 

Her skin is a pearly white, barely matted with makeup; she is pale enough to do away with it. Her lips are painted a very light rosy pink, her cheeks dusted with the same colour, her eyelids surreptitiously coloured with black and blood red and pink in lines so fine he can barely distinguish one from the others. 

Her hair is gathered in a natural crest above her head; she had protested strongly against the traditional inky black wig. She even went so far to refuse the _tsunokakushi_ (a white head ornament worn with the wig that serves to ‘hide the bride’s horns of jealousy’ and acts as a vow of ‘obedience and gentleness’). She might as well, he thinks. She will be nowhere near gentle, or obedient. They both know this; he loves her even more for it.

Through the photography session she is prim and proper. Through the vows he restrains himself when all he wishes for is some time alone with her, some privacy—he restrains himself so that he may finalise his ownership of her. They smoothly transition to the reception, without any stumbling on his part, even with the intense intricacies of the traditional Hibari ceremony. 

She disappears momentarily during the reception, to come back in a different kimono—again, black and blood red, to match his black and gold. She re-enters the hall this time by his side, and ahead of them walks a very much amused Mukuro, their honorary _nakodo_. The _okiya_ proprietor relishes his special speech, placed ahead of everyone else, and as strangers and hangers-on take their turn to make speeches, it is all he can do to keep himself from leading her away into the car and back to the house to keep for the night.

And perhaps her parents recognise this impatience within him—and within her, for she feels the same way, he can see—because they allow an early leave. Dino thinks they are godsend and bids them a good night of socialisation and drinking. He does not regret leaving them behind; no, not now, when he finally is alone with his Kyouya.   
In the car they remain apart, only their fingers lacing with each other. There is warmth settling between them, and the rest of the ride and walk up to their prepared private quarters is a haze. When finally they are alone in the half-light of the candle, he gently seizes her hands, pulls her close, and lands a small, darling kiss on her lips.

He feels more than sees the upturned curve of her lips as they surge for a second kiss, and then a third, and a fourth. All the while he keeps her within the circle of his arms, now his, now _his_ , finally. He cups the base of her neck, caresses her nape as she loosens her obi and the kimono’s neckline slides lower. His fingers idly slide underneath the silk, outlining her collarbones, her shoulders, the top of her back. He follows up with his lips.

Ever so gently he reaches around and blindly undoes the knot of her obi, and slowly unwinds the long piece of luxury silk. Each circle he dips close and places a soft kiss on her neck, or on her cheek, or on her eyelids. She is just this, a treasure for him to unravel and keep.

But before he can fully unwind the obi, she snarls softly in unveiled impatience and nearly rips the cloth into two as she forces it off and throws it aside. She surges against his chest, tiptoes and pulls his head down and meets him in a feral, domineering kiss that has him reeling against reality. 

All he can do is hang on as she drives him to the futon. They stumble upon it in a heap of silk-laden tangled limbs. His vision swims in the ecstatic black of her kisses and white of her skin, and it brings him pleasure beyond human comprehension as he sights the kimono sliding enticingly to reveal the pale flesh of her thigh. 

She straddles him easily, unwraps him from his own prison of black silk, and obviously relishes in the feel of skin against skin as they fall chest to chest into the softness beneath them. Her hands palm his bared back as he peppers her neck and chest with hot, open-mouthed, exploratory kisses. He does not spare one spot, and pays special attention to her nipples, pert and rock-hard. She hisses through her teeth at the sensation, and tugs him closer, closer, closer for _more_.

The flat expanse of her belly is a beautiful plateau for his tongue to dance upon. He cradles her back as she arches up against him, a picture of carnal lust and intoxicating pleasure. But she does not have much patience for the foreplay, he realises this quickly, when she shoves him against the floor. With strength she has artfully hidden in her pale, nimble limbs, she keeps him down, and takes his member in hand, and strokes one, two, three—and without a single thought for preparation she guides him into herself. He grits his teeth and holds on, even though he knows that no one will blame him if he let go.

She is still for several breathing moments atop him, her chest heaving as she adjusted to the fullness inside her. He gazed up at her in wonder, in pure awe, and gently rose, so that they were both sitting as she straddled him. The position offers incredible depth, but he fears it will cause her pain. Traversing a path across her shoulder and up her neck with his tongue, he lifts her— _carefully_ —and settles so that her back rests on the futon and silk cloths, and he looms over her. She keeps her thighs clamped securely around his hips, though.

When he begins rocking back and forth in measured, temperate thrusts, her forehead tightens in pain, but gradually, as he pays more attention to pleasuring her, her tension loosens, and she opens up to welcome him even deeper. She soon grinds against him, her soft little pants turning into small, short, repetitive ‘oh’s.

“Harder,” she demands roughly, tugging at his hair hard enough to hurt. “ _Harder_ ,” and under the thrall of those eyes he is at her mercy, at her command. He grips her hips and rides their rhythm harder; the burn in his thighs is well worth the long moans he draws from her lips. 

“Gods, Kyouya, I love you—“ he holds her up when she tightens around him convulsively, holds them together when he releases into her, holds himself with her when he gives the last few thrusts until they fall together and he topples into her chest.

Within twenty minutes, she turns them over, rests atop him, and seizes him a deep, long kiss. She says one word: “Again,” and so he willingly obeys.

•

**8. _for Twinness, extra special_**

On the plane, when he refuses her—painfully, and regretfully, because he wants her too, but _not here in the tiny bathroom stall_ —she scowls, straightens herself, and stalks away. He takes a while to compose himself, and when he steps back into their reserved first-class section, he expects a sharp tongue-lashing with slaps to match, but she simply tugs him down into the seat and curls against him, promptly falling asleep.

Most would find her self-consumed and demanding, but he finds this absolutely lovely. He loves to lavish her with attention—it has become his new hobby—and he has no plans of stopping anytime soon. He cradles her close through the flight and watches the play of clouds beyond the tiny window, dreading the politics waiting for them in Italy.

A second wedding ceremony is to be held now in his hometown in Calabria, to confirm the unity to their Italian allies. After all, their wedding is as much a play of power as it is love. The union of their two lines is a strong statement to both the _yakuza_ and the mafia worlds, where they respectively dominate. This is a strong cause for celebration for their allies—and a mighty blow to their enemies.

This second wedding will be to show their allies in Italy his bride, to show them that she is indeed worthy of the title—more than, even. He admits to anxiety and a little bit of stress, but his Kyouya is strong and steadfast. No amount of snobbery or politics will turn over a single strand of her hair.

He plants a soft kiss upon her forehead, curls around her for their shared warmth, and falls into a light slumber. When they wake, they are on Italian ground.

•

She loathes the bright Italian sun, so he keeps her indoors and comfortable. She loves Tropea’s beaches at night, however, and into a secluded cove he takes her for a little time alone away from their insistent guests.

The following morning, on the day of their wedding, they both wake up and return late, causing a two-hour delay in the wedding’s schedule—but here, in this laid-back, lovely seaside town, there is no need for hurry. The atmosphere is light and carefree; their guests are invited to indulge in a hearty lunch and conversation as they wait.

The second wedding, much less formal, takes place on the beach. She wears a sheer white dress, as if to tempt him even more, indeed perhaps _intended_ to tempt him even more to let go of his ‘damnable self-control’ as she curses it. Her Italian is smooth as she repeats the vows after the priest. During the exchange of rings, he kneels and peppers her hand with incessant kisses, until she grows frustrated and swats him away (much to the guests’ and his men’s amusement). Afterwards, the light-hearted after-wedding celebration commences, kept with a constant flow of wine and food.

It is at this time that she saunters away from the festivities towards their private bedroom, and as honey to bee, his eyes are drawn to the sway of her hips as she moves away. He drinks in the little slip of ankle skin, the last he sees of her before she disappears beyond the doors.

“Go on after her now, lad,” chuckles the Vongola Ninth from behind him, and he turns to meet the old man with a sheepish smile. “It is your day today. Spend it together.” He bids the Ninth his heartfelt gratitude, and after he does so, the old man looks him in the eye. “She is your life now, Dino. She is a strong soul, I can sense this, and she will match you wonderfully. Keep her and treat her well. She will bless you with boundless happiness in exchange.”

A slow smile finds its way upon Dino’s face. “Oh, I will, Nono. Even if I have to bend the planets to my will.”

“Good, good,” the old man happily reclines in his chair and sips fine wine. “Go now, then. Waste no time. I’m sure she dislikes being made to wait, hmm?”

And she does, so he follows after her, leaving behind the particulars of the gathering to trusty Romario as he walks up to their sizable beachside cottage. When he slips into their bedroom, she is stretched out upon the linen sheets, savouring the evening sea breeze filtering through the open window. 

“Come here,” and her smile is like a knife when she beckons with a finger. “You kept me waiting for too long, Cavallone.” 

He crawls atop her and drags his tongue graciously upon and around her collarbone. She sighs through a moan, and with a wicked little smile, he whispers into her ear, “I’ll just have to make it up to you then, _caro_.” 

In the height of passion he tries to keep in mind their noise, but he can’t be much concerned, not when he is buried hilt deep within her, not when she undulates as she does and takes him even deeper, _tighter_. Every single time is even better than the last time with her, and he does nothing but sink blissfully into this new addiction. She is his new drug.

When they emerge from the bedroom refreshed and ready for the fireworks, she is much satisfied. Her lovely ferocity has left its marks all over his neck and back and arms, but he is not ashamed to wear them for the guests to see. Because just as he owns her, so she owns him, and he grants her full rights to flaunt it to the world. Heaven knows he will flaunt _her_ as his, after all.


End file.
